The Truth About Grace

by Cassie Dandridge Selleck

  I watched him walk into the bathroom, then I turned around and walked back into my room and shut the door. I can’t change his mind and I ain’t gonna try. I just gotta do better, then he’ll see. I do wanna be his mama. I just don’t really know how yet.

  25 – Patrice

  Kamilah arrived around four-thirty. She seemed worried, but not surprised.

  “It’s part of the process,” she said. “She’s going to relapse. She’s going to mess up. It’s all about damage control at this point. Are the kids okay?”

  I shrugged. “They’re fine. Tired. Annoyed, maybe, but fine.”

  “How about you?” Kamilah leaned close and studied my face.

  “The same.”

  “You don’t look fine,” she said. “You look pissed.”

  “Bingo.” I pointed my finger at her for emphasis.

  “You have every right to be; I would be, too. But it won’t help anyone to show it.”

  I clinched my fists and willed myself not to scream. First of all, I’m an attorney. We are trained to hold our emotions in check, so she’s preaching to the choir here. Secondly, I’m human. I am not a machine. I cannot keep holding and holding and holding while everyone else wreaks havoc around me. But I did not say these things to Kamilah. I just rolled my eyes and threw both hands up in the air. Seriously – what’s the use?

  “Let’s go sit somewhere and talk.” Kamilah took me by the arm and led me to the front porch. We sat in the rockers and rocked silently for a while. I stared out across the street and noticed my friend Cheryl’s car at her mother’s house. We’d lost touch over the past year or so, though we had been inseparable at one time. She’d married straight out of college and divorced four years and three kids later, much to Dovey Kincaid’s horror. No Kincaid had ever divorced, though that was not so much the issue as the fact that Dovey had been openly critical of any of the town’s divorcees over the years. I remember Mama muttering, “Well, ain’t the chickens come home to roost.” She liked Cheryl, though. I liked her, too, and I missed her company.

  “Where are you?” Kamilah’s soft, full voice interrupted my thoughts.

  I smiled and closed my eyes for a moment. “Far, far away, I think. But still here.”

  “Tell me what happened.” Kamilah slid the pen from the center of her binder and clicked the point into place.

  “We had an appointment with the DA. When we got home, the kids were here and Gracie was high. Crank, she says, and I would have guessed that anyway. She was rearranging the pantry.”

  “Good guess,” Kamilah gave a wry laugh.

  “I’m so tired of this.” I dropped my head and fought back tears. I don’t even remember the last time I cried, and I did not want to start now.

  “I don’t know if this will help or not, but you’re doing a really good job here, Patrice.”

  I know she meant well. I do. But that one statement just went all over me. I felt my entire body tense as I grabbed both arms of the rocking chair and rose up out of my seat. I stepped to the railing of the porch and braced myself, stiff-armed, against the flat top of the rail. I took in a ragged breath, then turned to face her.

  “Honestly?” This came out like a shriek. A wave of surprise washed over her features, and I almost felt bad. Almost. I lowered my voice and plowed on.

  “Of all the people in the world, I’m the very one who knows I’m doing a good job. I did a good job in high school and college,” I said, pushing one index finger down with the other, then moving down the line as I spoke. “I did a good job taking care of my mother when she needed help, and my siblings while Mama worked. I’ve done a good job raising Shawn and Rochelle, and I’ve done a great job cleaning up all the messes my sister made, and I am sick of it. Sick to death of all of it. And all I get from you is ‘it won’t help to show it?’ Really? What do y’all want from me, blood?”

  Kamilah stood slowly, set her pen and writing pad down on her chair, then reached out and took my hand. “I’m sorry, Patrice.” She pulled me toward her and wrapped me with both arms. My hands hung awkwardly until I surrendered, threw my arms around her waist and buried my face in her shoulder.

  “You have done a good job, and you’ve mostly done it alone. But you aren’t alone anymore. I have a plan. We have a plan, and it will work. I want you to hear me, Patrice. The plan will work if we work it.”

  I sobbed into her shoulder for several minutes. Her long braids pressed into my cheek and smelled like earth and sage and something else I couldn’t place, but it felt powerful and true and I decided to trust her. When I relaxed and pulled away to wipe my eyes, she held me at arm’s length and said, “You don’t cry enough, do you?”

  “What’s enough?” I swiped at my nose with my sleeve.

  She laughed. “Sit,” she said. “Let’s talk about the plan.”

  I sat. She talked.

  “We used to believe addicts had to want to get better before we could treat them, and that’s still partially true. Families are told to detach, to let the addict hit rock bottom so they’d have the motivation to seek help. But, I don’t believe detachment means you have to stand back and watch helplessly while your loved-one self-destructs. And it certainly doesn’t mean you have to face this problem alone. This is a family problem, not an individual one, which is why I was so excited when you asked me to provide counseling for your entire family. I suggest it all the time, but this was a first. A family already seeking help as a unit.”

  I shrugged. “That was Miss Ora’s suggestion. I’m not gonna act like I was all gung ho on the thing.”

  “It won’t work without you. Plain and simple. It will not work.”

  I’m sure I looked skeptical. I dropped my chin to my chest and let all my air drain out.

  “Listen to me, Patrice. Like it or not, you have become the family matriarch. This family revolves around you…hold on. Hear me out.”

  I don’t even think I noticed my head snap up when she said that. It took forcing myself to shut my mouth, which hung open in astonishment, to become aware of my reaction.

  “I know, I know…you think it revolves around Grace. But let’s step back a moment. It is the gravitational pull of the earth that holds the moon in place. You hold this family together, Patrice. Grace is the meteor shower that threatens your existence. We have no control over where those meteors go, but we can adjust our orbit to give them the opportunity to fall comfortably in line. Does that make sense?”

  I scowled. “Not even a little.”

  “Alrighty, then,” Kamilah laughed. “Let me come at it another way.”

  “I’m a concrete kind of person. Less metaphor, more specifics.”

  She nodded. “Got it.”

  I relaxed again as she went on. “Our plan is Structured Family Recovery, which requires everyone in the family to be on board with the program. You are the one person who could make or break it for everyone. I need you to understand and agree on the plan and help me implement it. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I know it will work, and I know it will relieve you above all others in the end. What’s done is done in this family. There is no therapy for what should have happened, only what did.”

  “Exactly!” I erupted. “And it happened to Grace. I didn’t even know about it. Why is it my job to fix? Grace is the addict. Grace needs to fix it.”

  Kamilah nodded. “You’re right. Grace is the addict. But listen to me, addiction removes her ability to exercise willpower and self-control. That’s the nature of the disease. So let me ask you this: are you willing to put the responsibility of recovery on someone who has no self-control, no matter how much the family suffers in the process?”

  I looked down at the dark green planks of the porch floor. A line of ants marched down the white pillar by the front stoop. At the base of the pillar, a group of them struggled to move the dead body of a wasp, which rocked back and forth at the effort.

  “I’ll do whatever you say,” I said. “But I don’t want to make any decisions for this family.�
�

  “Such as?” Kamilah picked up the pad and paper from her chair, then sat back down.

  I leaned back on the porch railing again. “Like none. I don’t want to decide when we’ll get therapy or with whom. I don’t want to decide anything about anything. You just tell me what to do and when to do it. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Kamilah said. “First assignment: suspend your anger at Grace.”

  I sighed. Heavily.

  “This is just as much for you as it is for her. I want you to set a goal of a month. No matter what happens, don’t react with anger toward her. We’ll set boundaries and minimize opportunities for failure for Grace, but we can’t control what she does, only how we react to it. So we are going to choose to act out of love and not anger, courage, not fear.”

  “If you say so,” I groused.

  “Honey,” Kamilah said, “if I could teach this to you in one day, there would be no drug epidemic right now. You’re gonna have to trust me. Love, not anger. Courage, not fear. Be brave, Grasshopper.”

  I laughed out loud then, and it felt good.

  26 – Grace

  Kamilah asked me about the rape today. Ain’t nobody ever asked me about it before. Not even after they knew. Not Patrice, not Miss Ora, not even Aunt Tressa. I want to think it’s ’cause they scared to upset me, but I gotta admit, sometimes it feels like they just don’t care.

  Kamilah cares. She easy to talk to. She don’t judge me like everybody else. We were sittin’ on the porch. Sister was in the kitchen makin’ that meatloaf she promised, and the kids was parked in front of the TV while Miss Ora took a nap. She went up to her room about four o’clock and didn’t come down ‘til time for supper.

  Anyway, Kamilah was real careful about askin’. “Do you remember what happened to you? Can you talk about it?”

  I shrugged. “I ain’t all that sure what I remember and what I dreamed. Mama was right, in a way. It was a bad dream I dreamed over and over and over, ’til I thought it would never go away.”

  “Has it? Gone away, I mean.”

  I had to think about that a minute. “I was just about to think it did, but I dreamt it night before last.”

  Kamilah nodded like that explained everything. “Can you tell me what you think happened to you? It’s okay if you don’t feel comfortable. Just tell me what you want to, and I won’t push.”

  I ain’t sure she needed to be so careful about it. I was glad to finally give this story a voice. I ain’t ever been allowed to tell it before.

  “I ’member feelin’ proud ’cause Patrice let me walk to Miss Ora’s house all by myself. I knew the way good enough, even the shortcut through the woods. We used to go almost every day when Mama got off work so we could walk her home. Miss Ora was always sendin’ somethin’ home with her – leftovers or magazines or bread that was gettin’ old. She had a sweet tooth, so we were always gettin’ cake and pie she couldn’t eat all by herself. Even when Mr. Walter was alive, we’d get half of whatever Mama baked for ’em. Anyways, I know Marcus was at work that day, or I wouldn’t have got to go by myself. Marcus said I wasn’t old enough. But that day Patrice was on the phone… I don’t know where the twins was, but Patrice was on the phone for a long time and I kept buggin’ her to go show Mama the pictures I drew at school. Finally she just said, “Oh, just go then!” and I ran outta the house ’fore she could change her mind.”

  “How old were you?” Kamilah was leaning forward in her chair, her arms resting on her forearms. Her body almost looked folded in half.

  “I was in first grade, so I was six, almost seven, I think. My birthday’s in January.”

  “Young to be walking by yourself.”

  “Not back then. We had free run of the neighborhood and I’d walked to school with my friends since kindergarten. It’s just what we did. But, yeah, maybe clear through downtown was a stretch.”

  “So, when did you…I mean, when did Skipper…”

  “I took the shortcut through the woods. All the kids did. There was a bike path worn clear down to hard dirt. That white boy and three others were ridin’ their bikes and ’bout ran over me comin’ around the corner, but I heard ’em and stepped off the path. The other boys hollered and kept on goin’ but that white-haired one hit his brakes and slid his back tire around so he ended up right beside me.”

  “Did you know the other boys?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t know none of ’em. Anyway, this is where my memory gets weird. There are parts where my body remembers better than my head does. I remember him askin’ where I was goin’ and if I wanted a ride. I told ’im Miss Ora’s house and he said he could take me there. But I don’t remember if I got on the bike or not. Sometimes in my dreams, I did. Sometimes I said, “No, thank you, I can walk.

  I remember bein’ real polite like Mama always told me to be with white folk. And then…” I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to get a clear picture in my head. “I remember him bein’ on top of me, and we weren’t on the path anymore. I can’t figure out what’s missin’. I just remember fightin’ and screamin’, and then his hand over my mouth so I couldn’t breathe, and him sayin’ he was gonna cut my throat if I didn’t shut up. And at some point two of the other boys came back, and I could hear ’em laughin’ and sayin’ ‘Hurry up, hurry up,’ and I guess I passed out, ’cause when I woke up, he had me pinned to the ground, layin’ flat on top of me, and I screamed again…”

  I stopped talking for a minute—I could see him clear as day laughin’ like he’d done somethin’ he was proud of, and tellin’ me I better shut the hell up, and spittin’ in my face. I could see it in my mind, but that’s when I felt the panic risin’ up in my chest and I knew I couldn’t say the words to Kamilah. I opened my eyes and swiped at the tears spillin’ down my face. “I don’t know why I’m all the sudden emotional. I ain’t cried about this for years.” I looked at Kamilah like maybe she could explain it.

  “Nothing wrong with crying,” she said. “You can stop talking, or you can go on. You’re doing great.”

  “I’m not doin’ great at all.” I held my shaky hands out for her to see. “I need a drink. I need somethin’. I feel like I’m gonna crawl out of my skin.”

  “It’s okay. I’m going to sit with you through this.” Kamilah pulled her chair around so we were sitting knee to knee. She looked toward the door and called for Patrice, then looked surprised. “Oh, you’re there,” she said.

  I looked over my shoulder. Patrice was holding the door slightly open. I could tell she’d been crying.

  “Do you need me?” she asked Kamilah.

  “I was going to see if you’d get us some tea or coffee or something. Are you okay?”

  “Yep,” Patrice wiped both eyes with the heels of her hands. “I’ll be right back.”

  “How long you reckon’ she been standin’ there?” I don’t know why I asked when I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

  Kamilah just sat staring at the door. Then she took both my hands in hers and just held them a minute. “Do you believe in prayer?” she asked.

  I nodded. “You wanna pray?”

  “I do, if that’s okay.”

  “Can we wait for Sister?”

  “Absolutely,” Kamilah said, then smiled.

  We sat quietly for a moment, until a commotion from the kitchen made us both leap from our chairs and go inside.

  27 – Patrice

  I shouldn’t have eavesdropped, but I couldn’t move. I’d come to tell them it was time for supper and when I opened the screen door, I heard Gracie say something about Marcus being at work that day. It seemed like a bad time to interrupt, so I stood there a second and tried to decide what to do. I could go tell Miss Ora and come back, but then Grace was talking about Marcus saying she was too young, and me letting her walk to Miss Ora’s by herself.

  When Kamilah looked up to call for me, I felt a jolt like a taser, electric hot, and my heart actually hurt in my chest. I tried to play it off like I’d just opened the door, but she ha
d to know.

  She asked me for tea, or coffee, or something. I stumbled back to the kitchen just in time to see Miss Ora coming down the stairs and I turned to face her.

  “Patrice?” Her voice sounded like she was inside a tunnel. “Patrice!”

  “I need to sit down,” I said. Darkness started closing in through my peripheral vision and the next thing I knew, I was sitting on the couch with a cool washcloth on my forehead. Miss Ora was on the phone and Gracie was pacing. Kamilah was in the wing chair across from me making notes in her binder.

  “She’s okay,” I heard Kamilah say to Miss Ora. “I don’t think we need them.”

  Miss Ora covered one ear and walked into the kitchen with the phone still pressed to the other. Grace sat on the edge of the couch and took my hand in both of hers.

  “Sister?” She leaned forward, her head bent over mine, eyes searching my face for something I couldn’t quite place. Reassurance?

  I know Grace is an adult now. I knew it was an adult sitting beside me, her frail fingers worrying my own. But I could only see Gracie the six-year-old, looking up, not down, asking over and over, “Sister, can I go? Sister, please? I know the way. Sister, can I?”

  I felt the tears spill hot and reproving down my cheeks and neck. “I’m sorry, Gracie,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  28 – Grace

  I finished getting dinner ready, even though none of us felt much like eating. I could see Rochelle was worried. Shawn don’t let on he’s upset, he just his same teenage self, shuttin’ all the rest of us out. Patrice invited Kamilah to stay, but she said she had to get on home.

  I didn’t know they knew each other in college. That came out when Kamilah asked if Patrice was going to the Alpha Kappa Alpha gathering in Gainesville next month. Apparently she and Patrice were sorority sisters. Kinda puts a new spin on things if you ask me, but I didn’t say nothin’. We had enough cryin’ for one day already.